


A Little Off the Road

by Amoris



Category: Tin Man (2007)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-21
Updated: 2013-08-21
Packaged: 2017-12-24 05:33:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/935981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amoris/pseuds/Amoris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She may be gone, but Kansas hasn't forgotten her.</p><p>A Tin Man Challenge fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Little Off the Road

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on FF.net and LJ on 10.01.10
> 
> Written for Tin Man Challenge, 14A ("Birthdays!")

The glare from the late afternoon sun is blinding when he pulls his cruiser off the highway and turns up the long gravel drive. It's been a wet spring, and the road hasn't seen the grater for a while.  He's wishing now he'd stopped at home to pick up his truck. The going is slow, but he doesn't mind that, it gives him time to remind himself why he's doing this and why doing this makes him so goddamned insane.

He parks the cruiser once the house comes into view. It's a sad shell, and it breaks the heart some to see such a nice house fall into disrepair. The roof had been badly damaged by the storm that had ripped through, and the winter snow had caved most of it in. Most of the windows are broken now, and the lilac bushes are taking over the porch. In another year – has it already been a year? – the yard is going to resemble a midwestern jungle, with no one to keep the weeds and grass at bay. He ducks his head to peer through the windshield, his arms folded over the steering wheel.

The sight of the house is a damn shame.

Goading himself into moving, he grabs the supermarket bouquet from the seat beside him; the two hours in his car has started to curl the petals, but it doesn't matter. He has no cause to impress.

The gravel crunches under his feet, and the bright, unforgiving sun makes his eyes squint. The heat on his face and neck is unbearable; the shade trees he's parked under are still budding, and give him no respite, so he doesn't linger. His eyes wander over the property as he slowly ambles toward the house; everywhere is showing signs of neglect. There is no breeze, nothing stirs. Even the insects of the lazy afternoon have taken refuge against his intrusion.

All for the best. He'd rather no one saw him out here anyway.

The gate is hanging open, and he passes through into a knee-deep sea of dry prairie grass. There's no pathway beaten down by the repeat of treading feet to lead the way to the porch steps, only the heated, crackling sea to encroach on the gate and swallow his feet.

The house watches him unhappily, knowing he doesn't belong, forced to tolerate the presence of outsiders with no one to guard the keep. There is no raven-haired girl to stand on the threshold and demand the nature of his visit.

" _Why are you here?"_ the dark, empty windows ask him. The bouquet weighs heavily in his hand, the only reply he's got.

Breathing in the still, heavy air, he crosses the yard, wading across to the porch and the steps that lead upward. He can picture her standing above him from the safety of her perch, laughing half-heartedly at his attempts, rebuffing him one day then inviting him up to sit the next. She'd always been as unpredictable as a summer storm.

He stops short of the first step; the bottom stair is near lost to the overgrowth. There is a crack in the wood, and the paint is chipping. The birch sapling that has taken root next to the stairs will be thigh-high by the end of summer. He looks around, checking over his shoulder, afraid that someone might be there to see him making an ass of himself for a dead girl. He's alone, as it seems even the barn cat has long since run off; no one would think to look for him here.

Tthat had been the entire point in the first place, ever since she'd started smiling at him and thanking him for the tickets.

Better to get this over with quick.

Reaching out, he sets the bouquet down on the porch; he doesn't mount the steps nor let his hand touch the wood, stair, or rail.

He won't ever without her say-so.

"Happy birthday, DG."


End file.
